Loving Danny (3 page)

‘Perhaps I’ll borrow something of yours,’ I teased. I never borrowed Emily’s clothes. Aside from the fact that most of them were too tight, I didn’t much like her
style. She dressed to show off her midriff and her legs – neither of which were my best features – and she wore lots of slogan T-shirts in bright colours, which I thought looked
cheap.

‘If you want,’ she said, without irony.

Downstairs, the front door slammed shut. Dad was home. I knew that in exactly two minutes Mum would be calling us down for dinner. I could have set my watch by it. Emily pushed herself up.
‘Suppose we’d better go down,’ she said, sighing. ‘Get it over with.’

I rolled my eyes at her. ‘OK, but don’t mention anything about the gig. I’m not in the mood for an interrogation tonight.’

We went downstairs together. Dad was already sitting at the kitchen table. He’d taken off his glasses and was rubbing his eyes with the side of his hand. His bald scalp gleamed under the
fluorescent strip lighting.

‘Hello, girls,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Did you have a productive day?’

His question wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, so we both muttered affirmatively.

‘I’m just going to help Mum,’ I said, sensing an opportunity for escape. Emily screwed up her face at me. She hadn’t been quick enough, this time.

Mum was juggling steaming pots and pans at the other end of our L-shaped kitchen. ‘Ah, Naomi,’ she said, gratefully. ‘Would you help me serve the food and take it
in?’

She had cooked spaghetti, with bolognese sauce for herself and Dad, and a vegetable sauce for me and Emily. I’d been vegetarian since I was eleven; Emily was just a fussy eater and
didn’t like mince.

Dinner passed without incident. Between mouthfuls, Dad told us what he thought was a funny anecdote about a man in the accounts department at work who’d left his travelcard on the train
and had been fined, or something like that. I’m afraid I wasn’t listening properly, so I can’t repeat the story. Mum told Emily off for getting a C in her maths test and informed
her she wouldn’t be allowed out the night before a test again. She also told us she’d got a new piano pupil, whom she’d be teaching on Tuesday evenings at six. Dad asked after Mr
Stevens, my boss and his occasional golf partner. I said I hadn’t spoken to him that day, as I’d been left in the photocopying room on my own with a waist-high pile of folders to work
my way through. I moaned that I could still see the flash of the machine every time I closed my eyes and now probably had radiation poisoning. Dad tutted, ‘Well, we all have to start
somewhere.’

My mind kept drifting to Danny. I wondered if he was eating dinner somewhere too, and with whom. He seemed too self-assured to live with his parents. Did he live on his own or did he share a
flat with mates? I pictured him sitting in a bedsit, surrounded by guitars and CDs. I wished I hadn’t been so keen to rush off. Perhaps he would have asked me if I fancied a coffee, there and
then. We would have gone to the greasy spoon on the corner of Murray Street and talked till it closed. Then—

‘Naomi, I said did you want some fruit? Naomi!’ Mum looked exasperated. I shook my head.

‘Don’t worry about Naomi, Mum,’ Emily said, smiling cryptically. ‘She’s got a lot on her mind. Isn’t that right, Nay?’

‘Shut up, Em,’ I muttered, under my breath. I felt foolish. Danny probably hadn’t given me another thought. I was merely a potential audience member for his gig, a clumsy girl
who couldn’t even manage to get off a bus without forgetting her phone. He almost certainly had a girlfriend, or a string of beautiful girlfriends. I was angry with myself for reading so much
into nothing. How had my life become so mundane, so empty, that a momentary encounter with an attractive guy could make me fantasise about a future together?

I excused myself from the table and went back upstairs, leaving Emily to help with the washing-up. There were at least three hours to fill before bedtime. It was strange how long the evenings
seemed now; last year, with homework to complete and friends to see, I’d felt I never had enough time. It was as if I’d been running on a treadmill that had suddenly stopped, sending me
flying aimlessly. Maybe, it now occurred to me, I hadn’t been as in control of my life as I’d believed. All my agendas, all my goals, had been set by school or by my friends. My social
life had been handed to me on a plate. I had never had to be proactive. But if I was going to get through the next year I’d have to take risks, find things I enjoyed, and force myself to go
out and be more independent. The only problem was I didn’t know where to start.

There was nothing on TV, so I decided to listen to some music. I put on my favourite CD, a compilation that an ex-boyfriend, Mark, had made for me in the summer after our GCSEs. It was an
eclectic mixture of songs that he’d downloaded or copied from his own collection: contemporary guitar bands plus some 1960s folk, 80s pop and 90s dance music. Unfortunately for Mark,
I’d enjoyed listening to his CD far more than spending time with him.

For about an hour, I lay on my bed with my eyes closed. Downstairs, my family were going about their routines. Emily had popped out to a friend’s house. Dad was in his study, doing
paperwork. Mum was giving a piano lesson to a neighbour’s very unmusical child. The cacophonous notes kept bleeding through the ceiling, jarring with the melodies on my CD. Mum must have been
seething with frustration; she was such a perfectionist, especially when it came to music. At least she was busy. It seemed that everyone else had something to do, a purpose. Everyone except
me.

Shut up, Naomi.
I had to stop feeling sorry for myself – it wasn’t an appealing trait and I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I sat up and gazed at the photo on my
bedside table. It showed me, Debbie, Natasha and Holly, all grinning broadly, our arms wrapped around each other. Funny to think it had only been taken a few months before. We were inseparable.
Now, Debbie was in Manchester, Natasha in New York, and as for Holly, who knew? Her last e-mail, which I’d received a month before, had come from Sydney. In it she said she had met a guy and
was planning to travel to Indonesia with him.

Debbie hadn’t called me for a few days. When she’d left for Manchester we agreed that we’d take it in turns to phone each other on alternate nights, but it hadn’t worked
out that way. We were on such different schedules, she might as well have been on the other side of the world too. I was up at seven a.m., she rarely went to bed before three or four. I had to be
asleep by eleven, not long after she’d gone out for the night. She got up during my lunch hour.

Although strictly it was Debbie’s turn to ring, I wanted to talk to her that minute. It was nine o’clock; she might still be in her room. I took my mobile out of my bag and dialled.
I didn’t even have to look what I was doing – she was number one on speed-dial.

Her phone rang at least ten times before she picked up. ‘Naomi, hi!’ There was so much background noise, I could hardly hear her. ‘I’m in the Union bar. Hold on a
sec.’ I heard her apologising to someone, then the background noise subsided and she came back on the line.

‘Sorry, just had to go outside. What are you up to?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know, this and that.’ I tried to hide how world-weary I felt. ‘What about you?’

She sounded excited. ‘I’m just having a few drinks in the Union, then me and some of my mates from Hall are going clubbing in town. There’s this great place that basically has
a happy hour till midnight. And girls get in half price. Maybe we can go when you come up to stay. Hold on a second . . .’

I heard her saying hello to someone and then she must have hugged them because their voices suddenly sounded muffled. ‘Sorry about that. Just this guy from my tutorial group. I think
he’s had a few too many. So, what have you been doing again?’

I knew I had nothing to tell her except that I’d met Danny. But she was meeting new guys every day; my brief encounter wouldn’t impress her.

‘I sort of met a guy today,’ I volunteered, after a long pause. ‘He’s called Danny.’

‘Oh, Naomi! That’s great!’ she cried. ‘Are you going to see him again?’ I’d left out the part about the bus and she’d concluded we’d already been
on a date.

‘Yes,’ I half lied. ‘We’re going out next Thursday. Well, I’m going to see his band play.’

‘That’s great, Naomi,’ she said again. I could tell she was only half-concentrating. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go now. But I promise I’ll call you tomorrow. You
can tell me all about him then.’

I’d hardly managed to say goodbye before she hung up. I felt a little annoyed that she hadn’t had time for me. But, if I was honest with myself, I knew that I’d be the same if
I were in her position. Why on earth, I asked myself again, had I chosen to take a gap year? Why hadn’t I realised I’d be left behind? The truth was I was jealous that Debbie was having
such a good time, and scared that she’d replace me with a new best friend. I felt this more acutely every time we spoke, every time she mentioned someone she’d met in the coffee bar or
in the queue for a lecture. I was so self-conscious about my lack of interesting news I was sure she’d soon discover what a boring person I really was.

Even if I’d known where to go to meet new people, I’ve never been the sort of person who can walk into a room, march up to a stranger and introduce myself. I don’t know what to
talk about, or how much eye contact to make and I’m not very good at judging when to move on to someone else. Always too polite, I usually end up getting stuck all night with the creepy,
sweaty-palmed guy who nobody else wants to talk to. I had hoped that I might make some new friends at work, but although everyone was friendly enough, they were all much older than me and many of
them were married with children. They treated me like the ‘work experience girl’, which, of course, I was.

I’ve got other friends, I told myself. OK, maybe they weren’t such close friends, but I could still call them, couldn’t I? What about Dee? She had been in my class at school
and, like me, had stayed in London. But unlike me, it wasn’t out of choice: poor Dee had got such bad marks in her A-levels that she was having to retake. Knowing there was someone worse off
than me made me feel a little better. I believe my old German teacher would have called that feeling
Schadenfreude.

I didn’t have Dee’s number on speed-dial, so I had to look in my phone’s address book for it. Nonchalantly, I started scrolling through the Ds: Dad, mobile; Dad, work; Danny;
Debbie . . .

Danny?
I didn’t know anyone called Danny. Did I? My heart began to pound. The cartoon ‘me’ did an exaggerated double-take, reacting with bug-eyed, wide-jawed
surprise.

No, it couldn’t be . . . could it?

There was only one possible explanation. Somehow, in the short time between chasing me from the bus and giving me back my phone, Danny had typed his name and number into my address book. He
could only have done it because he wanted me to know he liked me. Maybe he even wanted me to call him. For an instant, I thought about doing it and then, just as quickly, decided against it. I told
myself it was because I didn’t want to appear too keen, but I knew, really, that it was fear that stopped me: fear of a stilted, silence-laden conversation; fear of spoiling the delicious
anticipation of what might be.

I never did get around to calling Dee.

And I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

F
rom the outside, The Bunker looks just like any other old pub on any high street in Britain. Its brickwork is decorated with overlapping graffiti,
which nobody will ever be able to wash off entirely, and the bright green paintwork on the windows and doors is now chipped and peeling, exposing the wood beneath. A long time ago, someone –
a landlord hoping for a different sort of clientele, perhaps – hung flower baskets along its frontage. But that landlord has clearly long since gone and the flowers have withered and died,
leaving a mess of weeds and straw, which partially obscure the pub sign.

Strictly speaking, the pub is named The King’s Arms, but it has become known for the music venue in its bowels and now everybody calls it ‘The Bunker’. You don’t even
have to go into the main part of the pub to get to the venue (only old men drink in the pub); The Bunker has its own door at the side. Then it’s down a long flight of stairs, which reek of
stale beer and urine, to a dimly lit basement where you’ll find another bar and a cavernous room with a stage at the far end.

I’d been to The Bunker many times before, but I’d never noticed just how dilapidated it was until the night of Danny’s gig. That’s probably because I’d never spent
so much time standing outside it. Emily and I arrived unfashionably early, at seven p.m. It was Danny’s fault (and mine too, for not having the guts to call or even text and ask); he
hadn’t told me which band he was in, so I had to be there for the start. The doors had not yet opened, so we loitered in the street outside, shuffling from foot to foot and repeatedly
checking our watches and our mobile phones to make it look as though we were waiting for someone. I was on high alert with nerves, jumping every time a car drew up or a group of people walked past.
If anybody even half resembling Danny approached in the distance, my stomach lurched.